


the bite you take

by heyshalina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Depressed Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, angst bucket, post mid-season finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean hasn’t touched any hard liquor since he’d returned from Purgatory, a fact that he secretly holds pride in. He grabs the tequila from the kitchen and sits in the middle of the bunker, with books tossed everywhere and pages ripped out on the floor, and takes the longest drink of his life.<br/>It burns like hell-fire."<br/>.<br/>Post s9 mid-season finale. After Gadreel leaves, Dean is alone. More alone than he's ever been before, with more work to do than ever before, and no one to catch him as he falls apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bite you take

**Author's Note:**

> This work is also posted on Fanfiction.net on an account of the same name.

It’s difficult to get off of the floor. It is arguably the hardest task Dean Winchester has ever had to accomplish.

There’s a churning in his stomach that has nothing to do with an angel’s grip on his insides and absolutely everything to do with the smell of burning flesh and the scent of  _death_  that has risen into the air of the bunker and tainted his home, assaulted his insides. Dean attempts to get up but instead just lands a few feet closer to Kevin...Kevin’s  _body_ , on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders. He lets out a keening sound that he hasn’t made in a very long while – a sound that he thought he could be rid of, maybe for good – and pukes all over the ground, all over his shirt, and his hands, but he doesn’t care. When he looks up, though, and realizes that his vomit has splashed off of the hard wood and onto the corners of Kevin’s worker, he breaks.

Suddenly he’s sliding in bodily fluids and there’s still pain in his chest but  _he does not care_ , and his fingers are probing the side of Kevin’s neck, smoke still rising out of his eye sockets and god, he’s going to puke again. Dean backs up from Kevin and right up into the pillar again, his face wet, but he doesn’t remember crying.

And then it hits that Sam’s gone, too.

Cas, an angel again.

Bobby, dead.

Charlie, gone.

K-Kevin, gone.

Lisa and Ben, gone.

Dad, dead.

Mom.

Dean is alone.

He is, for the first time in his life, completely and utterly alone.

And so Dean Winchester covers his head with his hands, braces himself against his knees, grips his gun in his hand, and wants to die.

.

It’s only two days later, after he calls Sheriff Mills for a favor to...take Kevin, after he sits in his room that he doesn’t quite think is his anymore for eight hours and then tears it all apart, breaking frames and slashing his mattress, that he realizes that he doesn’t know the angel’s name.

Dean had let an angel possess his brother on the simple word that he was a good angel, as if any angels were good, on his word that he was Ezekiel, trusted soldier and friend.

He had just... _trusted_  that he was helping his brother. He had put his little brother, his charge, his  _Sammy_  in the hands of a stranger. And paid for it. God, had he paid for it.

_Protect your brother._

How could he have not verified what the angel had said, when it was Sam on the line? He was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And now Sammy was gone.

_Watch out for Sammy._

He could have been inside Sam the whole time, and not healed him one bit. He could have been playing Sammy all along, and Dean had fallen for it. Sammy...Sam could be dead.

_Don’t trust anyone, Dean._

Just...gone.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!_

“I tried,” Dean moaned, curling in on himself. “God, Dad, I tried, I tried so hard. I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so goddamn sorry.”

He still had the gun in his hands.

_There ain't no me if there ain’t no you!_

He just couldn’t bring himself to load it.

.

He beats his fists against the machine again and again, a scream threatening to tear its way out of his throat.

“You’re supposed to track angels,” He growls, wiping at sleepless eyes. Acid boils in his throat as his stomach growls; he hasn’t dared to eat anything after the first few times, and the many vomit stains in his now closed and locked room. He leans against the computer, head heavy on his shoulders. “So  _track angels_.”

He waits for a moment, and then lets it slip out. “Please.”

The entire bunker falls into absolute silence, and Dean waits. Honestly, he waits, vulnerable and bare.

The only sound that answers is the soft, whistled tune of “Sympathy for the Devil” from underneath the floorboards, where the dungeon lay.

Dean hasn’t touched any hard liquor since he’d returned from Purgatory, a fact that he secretly holds pride in. He grabs the tequila from the kitchen and sits in the middle of the bunker, with books tossed everywhere and pages ripped out on the floor, and takes the longest drink of his life.

It burns like hell-fire.

.

“Tell me who the fuck he is,” Dean nearly roars, stumbling into the table behind which Crowley sits, shackled and tied within a devil’s trap.

Crowley cocks his head in a true douchebag fashion. “You don’t look so good there, mate. You need to lay off your liquor.”

Dean thrusts his palms onto the table, murder in his eyes. “The angel in Sam. It isn’t Ezekiel. You know who it is. Tell me.”

Crowley blinks innocently. It makes bile rise up in Dean’s throat. His hands tremble from alcohol and rage. “Ezekiel is dead?”

“Don’t play games with me.” Dean’s voice is low and viscous. “Ezekiel died in the fall. Whoever’s in Sam, that ain’t him. So tell me what you know.”

“Well, that’s truly unfortunate, Butch, but I don’t know about the fall. I was tied up.” He leans forward, voice brash. “In a car.”

“Who would be desperate enough to use Sam, to use us?” Dean asks. “Someone who didn’t want any angels near us, even Cas. Every angel out there knows that I have Cas’s back, but someone didn’t care, someone who needed to hide more than I needed Sam to live, and that’s a hell of a lot. I know that you know, dick-bag, so spill.”

Crowley fake pouts, sniffling for effect. “Aw, is Deano upset because his brother’s dead?”

Dean whips out Ruby’s knife from its holster and slams it into Crowley’s palm, sitting flat on the table. Yellow light pours from the wound as Crowley screams; first in pain, and then in rage.

“Tell me who the angel is!” Dean growls.

“First the demon names, now the angel.” Crowley seethes. “You Winchesters are so hard to please.”

Dean sinks the blade in farther, to the hilt, and Crowley gasps. “I will sick Abaddon on your ass. I will torture you in all the ways you know I know how, and leave you for the pickings. Tell me who’s possessing Sam.”

“Is this because he killed your prophet?” Crowley hisses. “ Poor boy, never believed his mom was actually still alive. Oh, she’ll be so disappointed…”

Dean rips the knife from the demon’s hand and plunges it into his shoulder, eliciting a cry. “Now.”

Crowley’s head whips up, eyes blood red. “Over my dead body, you bastard.”

Dean twists the knife in Crowley’s flesh, revelling in his scream, his lip twitching in gross satisfaction. He backs away, pulling the knife with him, and leaves the dungeon, Crowley panting and spouting obscenities at his back.

Dean sits on the floor of the library with a bottle in his hand, useless Men of Letters books surrounding him. It’s been awhile since he’s been shitfaced drunk. Before he’d been in Purgatory, he’d had a tolerance so high it was nearly an immunity, a steel liver and inconsolable conscience filled with so much grief and self-hate that alcohol didn’t even begin to touch it. He doesn’t have such an immunity, now. Dean raises the bottle to his lips, letting the burn wash over him.

It's time to gain it back.

.

He can’t pass out. Won’t pass out. He has too much work to do.

And no amount of alcohol, no matter how hard he tries, seems to dull the pain.

He’s torn through every book with angels even mentioned once in the bunker, searched the entire internet, and cannot narrow down to who is possessing his brother.

(his brother’s corpse)

He’s tried praying to Cas, but has gotten exactly zip on the number of replies to his urgent, hurried prayers. The angel doesn’t have a cell phone, so Dean can’t physically call him.

Cas has better things to do with his time, anyway.

(since when is anything more important than Sam)

He calls everyone he knows. Dials every number in his journal, and then his Dad’s, too. Voicemails blur into conversations into messages, and suddenly Dean catches himself talking when he doesn’t remember dialing.

“Dad, I –” He stops, looking at the number on his phone. Realizes that the phone the number belongs to is in his baby’s glove compartment, up in the garage. “I fucked up, Dad. I – I think I really messed it up for good, this time. I keep trying, it’s been weeks, I think, I dunno, but…”  His voice drops to a whisper. “I think Sammy’s gone. Really gone. And I don’t think I can get him back.”

He hangs up the phone and stands, swaying on his feet. He takes a few steps and stumbles, leans over and throws up tequila and stomach lining on the floor. His stomach screams, and his ears are ringing, and really, what’s the point anymore, of even trying to eat, or listen, or live? There’s not even a Michael to say yes to, no end that even Lucifer could foresee. Dean knows it now, that no roads led there, all of them led to this. Here. Him. Alone.

Dean takes another few steps and stumbles at the lip of the wood floor, falling face-first toward the ground. Something catches him before his head could clip the table, and really, he thinks, that’s a shame. It could have killed him.

Two fingers fall softly on his forehead. “Sleep, Dean.” Someone tells him.

So he does.

.

When Dean wakes, he wakes up pissed. Both at himself and at the man at the foot of his bed.

“What the hell, man?” Dean bites, rising hastily. “I – I have work to do, we have work to do, I have to find Sam!”

“You cannot find him dead,” Castiel replies, moving forward and pressing Dean down into the mattress. “You had not slept in many days. You are still weak.”

“I can still work, I can still –”

“Attempt to find a trail when there is none?” Cas interrupts. “Carry on without eating, drinking only liquor, getting nowhere and nearly killing yourself in your blind quest to save your doomed brother?”

Dean is silent, so Castiel continues. “You could have died, Dean.”

Dean knows. “Maybe it would’ve been better that way, Cas.”

Castiel blinks. “I cannot have you believe that, Dean. You cannot think, after all these years –”

“Of trying and failing?” Dean asks. “Of leading to where? Here? And what is so good about that?”

“You are alive.”

“I was more alive in Purgatory than I am here, Cas. Here, I just mess up, and now, Sam...Sammy…”

“Is still alive.” Castiel exclaims, and Dean’s head snaps up, elbow propping him so he can look the angel in the eye. “For whatever reason, your brother still clings to life. Gadreel controls him, yes, but he is not gone.”

“Gadreel.” Dean blinks. “Who – how –”

“I went searching when I heard your prayer.” Castiel says. “I am sorry I could not return here sooner. I had to make sure I was not followed, and it took me awhile to find a follower of Metatron that could be persuaded –”

“The angel, his name is Gadreel?” Dean asks frantically. Castiel nods. “Who is he? Who are we dealing with? Can we get him out of Sam?”

“Dean, you must understand,” Castiel’s voice lowers. “Gadreel is not a good angel. He was imprisoned in heaven for many millenia. It is he who was charged with the corruption of mankind, for he taught man sin. He is... a bad guy.”

“Have you met him?” Dean asks. Castiel blinks.

“No. He has been locked away in the depths of darkness for longer than I care to remember, Dean. He must have been unleashed during the fall. If he has gone to Metatron now, he must be truly desperate.”

“For what?”

“For repentance.”

Dean looks up, and Castiel shouldn’t be surprised at the amount of emotion in the man’s eyes, but he is. “After what he’s done, he won’t find any.”

“I believe this also.” Castiel agrees, looking down at his hands, seating himself next to Dean on the bed. There is a nearly tangible moment of silence, and Dean clears his throat.

“So.” He offers. “You got your mojo back, huh?”

Castiel sighs slightly, nodding. Dean subconsciously scooches closer on his elbow. “My ‘mojo’ is not truly my own,” He says. “I think that is long gone, in Metatron’s sacrifice. This grace, it is not mine.” He pauses. “I am not fully capable of what I once was. It feels...wrong.”

“Well, hey, listen.” Dean says. “I mean, after...this, if it’s wrong, maybe it ain’t meant to…you’re welcome, Cas, whether you’re an angel or not.”

Cas smiles without it reaching his eyes. “Maybe one day I’ll believe that, Dean.” He stands abruptly, shocking Dean onto his back on the bed. Cas fixes his blazer jacket, and something registers in Dean’s mind, something that seems  _wrong_  with this image of Castiel, this newly angelic version of him. Cas turns.

“I will look for Sam. You are weak.” It is a statement, a fact, but something churns in Dean all the same, just below his ribs, red-hot and ugly. Cas leans over Dean and puts a hand on his forehead, and drowsiness rushes over the human, leading him back toward slumber. The angel’s hand ran up and through Dean’s hair, making the man feel warm and still. “Rest, Dean. I will call for you.”

And if Dean felt the trace of lips on his hairline, well, he was too far gone to do anything about it.

.

Crowley doesn’t whistle anymore. Instead he sings, sarcasm and irony not escaping the king of hell’s mind or mouth. He switches from the Stones to Metallica to Kiss and back again, and if Dean hadn’t thrown his unloaded gun into the woods outside of the bunker, there’d be several bullets in the demon’s skull, if not one in Dean’s. Eventually, he kicks thrown pots and chairs out of the way as he makes his way down to the dungeon. Crowley doesn’t get one word in edgewise before Dean crams a gag into his mouth, tapes it shut, and walks out again.

He starts tapping beats the next day, and Dean is about ready to explode.

Dean still doesn’t have the appetite to eat, opting instead for whiskey and a couple of sticks of beef jerky now and again. He makes sure he sleeps, though, at least a couple hours a night in between his research on Gadreel and angelic possession. He’s just passing time, because he finds nothing. He keeps looking at his phone, but nothing comes up. Castiel doesn’t call.

Until he does.

“I found your brother, Dean.”

Dean trips over something as he stumbles into the library, grabbing his pre-packed duffel and running in the direction of the garage. “Where are you? Is he okay?”

“I’m just outside Flint, Michigan, about three-quarters of an hour from Detroit. As for your brother, as far as I can tell, he’s…”

“Will he live?” Dean interjects.

Castiel pauses. “Yes.”

“That’s all I need. I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

“Dean–” Something breaks in Castiel’s voice, something  _human_ , and Dean slows. “This situation is hazardous. Be careful.”

Dean stops, smirks. “Always am.”

He hangs up the phone and jogs to the door, but something stops him. He turns around and looks at the bunker, the ruined former home of the Men of Letters, the hellhole he'd been wallowing in for the past however long it'd been, with books strewn across the floor, furniture knocked over, vomit stains and ashes. Suddenly, Dean sets down his things and walks back into the rooms, picking up books and cradling them, carrying them back to shelves and placing them gently inside. He uprights the furniture, puts away the pots and pans. He takes a cloth and wipes down the tables, mops the floor, daring even to go to the corner where Kevin’s body fell. Dean takes all the glasses and cleans them, sweeps up the shards of those that were broken, and holds bottles, empty or half-so, in his shaking hands. He throws them all away, and then takes the trash bags down to the incinerator he’s always been fond of, burning them and pretending he can’t smell the alcohol taunting him. Dean takes his duffel and slings it over his shoulder and finally goes to Sam’s room, a bare-boned mockery of a bedroom, and sits down on the bed. He fixes the sheets and clicks off the lamp – still on, left so after all this time, a testament that this cell was actually _lived in_  – and runs his hands over dusty beareaus, making them shine. Dean takes in his work, and smiles. It wasn’t just a bunker now. It almost was what it was before; a home. Not quite, because nothing was home without Sam there. But it was close. It was safe. A place Sammy could come home to.

Dean sits inside his baby for a few minutes before starting the ignition, running his hands over worn leather and cool metal. He summons the strength and pulls out of the garage and onto the open road, tearing at a piece of jerky with his teeth. Metallica blares through the speakers.

“ _One day you will see and dare to come down to me, yeah, c’mon, c’mon now take the chance, that’s right–_ ”

Dean punches at the console and turns off of the music. He heaves a deep sigh and focuses on the road.

“Detroit.” He rasps. “Okay. I can do that.”

He drives all night just to get back home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from "Devil's Dance" by Metallica, as well as the lyrics at the end. Crowley's whistling of "Sympathy for the Devil" by The Rolling Stones is just him being an asshole.


End file.
